


Fëanorian Week 2018

by mischianza



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 17:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14116926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischianza/pseuds/mischianza
Summary: My short pieces for Fëanorian Week.Day 1: MaedhrosDay 2: MaglorDay 3: CelegormDay 4: CaranthirDay 5: CurufinDay 6: AmbarussaDay 7: Nerdanel & Fëanor





	1. Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

> Quenya names:
> 
> Maitimo = Maedhros  
> Findekáno = Fingon  
> Fëanáro = Fëanor  
> 

Maitimo stood outside, looking at the forest in an attempt to avoid interacting with anyone, avoid thinking. It was not that he wished to wander into it, not necessarily. But after what his father had told him (“ _As you know, you are to be my heir. Look after your brothers_.”), as though he were dying—as though that were a possibility—he almost wished to hide. He understood Fëanaro’s logic, in a theoretical sense—or rather he supposed he would soon—but there was no reason it needed to be brought up now. _Why now?_

“Maitimo?” came a voice behind him, and he heard tentative footsteps. Findekáno. He turned and smiled. Here was someone–the only one–he wished to interact with. Findekáno slipped his fingers between Maitimo’s. “What is it?”

There were times when Maitimo wished Findekáno could not always read him so perfectly. He shook his head, but felt as though he should tell him. But how to begin… “My father…” No. He tried again: “If…” No. “I am to be the head of my family, if my father…if he…”

Findekáno squeezed his hand. “If that happens, it will not be for some time yet.”

He knew that was true, yet… “I am to be separated from my brothers. I am to learn separate things. I don’t know how often I will see them—“

“Of course you will see them.” Findekáno leaned closer. “And you have me.”

“My father will know someday.”

Findekáno leaned up to whisper in his ear. “But it is not this day.”

Maitimo glanced back at the house, now uninviting. “Would you walk with me?”

Findekáno nodded, and they found their way through the trees, not noticing how far they had gotten until they reached a grassy hillside beyond them. Maitimo almost laughed—was it not this same hillside? He remembered the moment Findekáno first kissed him, asking shyly as they lay in the grass. He had not thought anything would come of it, yet there they were.

Findekáno looked up at him, a question written on his face.

Maitimo answered, kissing him. When they pulled apart Findekáno whispered, “I know you would make a wonderful king.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I know you do not wish for it, but you would.”

“I think you would be better.”

They lay in the grass as Findekáno protested, saying how good it is that he would never have such a title. They lay in silence, a necessary one. And there, leaning on Findekáno’s shoulder, Maitimo slept.


	2. Maglor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Names
> 
> Makalaurë = Maglor  
> Maitimo = Maedhros

The look in his eyes was pleading. It was faraway and sad, and suddenly Maglor did not see the wise elder brother, the leader, the warlord. He looked into Maedhros’ eyes and he did not see where they were, the things Eönwë had told them, what Maedhros asked him to do. Instead he saw what was, on the whole, a very different day, ages ago, when they had been young…

\---

He had not noticed Maitimo’s absence, not fully anyway, being too absorbed in his composition. _I would not write like this normally_ , thought Makalaurë. _I should be enjoying this_. Meaning, of course, that he would not ordinarily record his songs in writing. It added time, and he constantly worried he would forget something—how the song was supposed to go. Was not the point of a bard that someone else would write the words and music down for you in your memory? And Makalaurë trusted that he would always be there to sing, so there was no fear of that.

Maitimo, in contrast, was called to speak to their father. Makalaurë did not know this until he appeared that evening in the tavern, face grim. He was given a glass of wine and drank it in one gulp. He asked for another and drank it just as quickly.

“Maitimo?” Maitimo looked at Makalaurë from over the top of his third glass. “Are you alright?” Then, knowing the answer to this would inevitably be cryptic and short, he tried again: “Did something happen?”

“I was with Father—“

“Ah.” That was all he needed to say, really, but ordinarily Maitimo did not have such a…strong reaction. Their father _had_ been strange lately…

“He says I am to be king, and furthermore that we need to construct armor and arm ourselves.”

“For what, a tavern brawl?”

“I don’t know! But I am terrified, if I’m honest, and I wish he would not share these things with me.”

“You are only king if Father dies, and he has more life than most.”

“Anyone can die, or so he says. Even us.”

Makalaurë grimaced. “What a…lovely conversation.” He plucked at the strings of his harp absentmindedly. “Meanwhile he just tells me I should write my music down.” Across the table, Maitimo was staring at his glass. Makalaurë continued: “I worked on one song today and couldn’t finish.” It was obvious that this was not improving Maitimo’s mood, so he did the only thing he knew would work.

It was not the song he had worked on for hours, but one that seemed to come to him in that particular moment. It was joyful, almost triumphant, and somehow explained everything he was thinking. Maitimo smiled softly, his eyes still fixed on the glass. Makalaurë stood up rather abruptly, and holding his small harp, he attempted a dance around the table.

—

He could not recall Maedhros’ reaction…he thought he might have laughed, but he was no longer sure. Now, there was nothing that could fix how he was feeling—how both of them were feeling. Maglor knew there was no glory in Maedhros’ desperation. He knew Maedhros knew it too. This was not about glory, or putting anything to right. Maedhros looked terrified, and he could not bear to see his brother like this. So he agreed.


	3. Celegorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Names
> 
> Tyelkormo = Celegorm  
> Makalaurë = Maglor

Tyelkormo was annoyed. Usually when this happened he would walk outside, stomping his feet in the grass until his shoes were nearly covered in dirt and grass stains, and then go inside once more. If this did not work he would run into the woods, looking over his shoulder to make sure someone was watching. He would always return quickly, but this time he ran, and ran, and ran.

He ran until he found a clearing somewhere in the forest, and nearly collapsed on the grass. The air was silent. It was as though nowhere else existed, and he suddenly became very aware of the silence and how alone he was, and he was frightened. _That was the path. It has to be_. Then, a louder thought: _Of course that isn’t the path! There was never a path to begin with!_ It was true, he hadn’t followed any path, merely ran at the trees until he became tired.

“Where am I?” he asked aloud. Then, growing impatient, he tried again: “WHERE AM I?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled Makalaurë telling him that certain Valar lived in different parts of the woods, and he had explained each section, but at the moment Tyelkormo had all but forgotten that. He had no idea whose woods they were…

In the distance came the sound of hoofbeats, and perhaps something running beside them. Tyelkormo looked up to see a very large man on a very large horse, surrounded by dogs the size of ordinary horses. In short, Tyelkormo felt very small, and in fact he was.

Horses and dogs, which meant… “You are Oromë, aren’t you?” He made himself as large as possible, to show he was not afraid.

The large man—who, as it happened, was Oromë—laughed. “Yes I am, young elf. And who are you?”

“I am Tyelkormo. My father is Fëanáro.”

“And are you lost, young Tyelkormo?”

“No! I mean…maybe? I ran here in a straight line.”

Oromë smiled. “I will take you home.”

Tyelkormo did not wish to admit that he would like that, but he assented and Oromë let him sit on the very large horse with him.

“Do you live here?” Tyelkormo asked.

“Yes, young Tyelkormo.”

“I like it here.” That was true; he did. He especially liked running through the trees, so he understood Oromë. If he had nothing else to do—if his father did not require him to learn so many things, that is—he would spend as much time on that as he could.

When Oromë left him on the edge of the woods, Tyelkormo asked, “May I visit you?”

Oromë laughed once more. “Of course.”


	4. Caranthir

It was only when the Edain representatives came that Caranthir realized he knew almost nothing about Men. This was not necessarily a flaw, but it suddenly occurred to him as he stood before the gathering that it might affect the diplomatic process.

They seemed friendly enough, perhaps as confused about the Eldar and their customs as he was about theirs, and if he were being entirely honest, their chieftain fascinated him. He tried to give the same attention to the others (as a way of being courteous and hoping that he would not disturb her). Most of all, he hoped his feelings could not be read on his face. He tried to will his face to not turn redder than it already was. After years of trying this, he knew full well that it was a futile effort, yet he hoped it would work in this situation more than any other.

It was evidently not working, as he could feel his face turning progressively warmer as the time inched closer to when he would speak and present his gifts. He could also tell because the chieftain was looking at him, confusion and concern on her face. Caranthir smiled quickly, hoping it would ease whatever concern she and anyone else had.

The Edain gathered around him, and he opened his mouth to speak.


	5. Curufin

His son held the bracelet—his first forging effort—out to him. Curufin did not take it right away. Instead his eyes narrowed, noticing the technique. Celebrimbor immediately looked concerned, whispering, “What is it, Father?”

“You used your grandfather’s notes.” This did not sound like a compliment, yet Curufin was genuinely impressed that his son had found the notes and thought to use them. “Did you use his technique as well?”

“I tried. I don’t think it worked effectively—“

At this point, Curufin took the bracelet into his hand, inspecting it. “That may be true. There are numerous flaws.”

Celebrimbor was looking at his feet.

Curufin ran his fingers across the surface of the bracelet, looking displeased. “You did not smooth the sides.”

“I was…” Celebrimbor trailed off. “I was trying to carve a design into it…”

Curufin looked closer, noticing the small carvings on the sides. “Oh…Oh, I see. Did you draw these out first?”

“I tried…”

“That’s good. It can be difficult to find the design if you do not.” Celebrimbor nodded. It was at that moment that Curufin finally looked at him, noticing how dejected he appeared. “This is good, for your first project.”

“Will you wear it?” Celebrimbor glanced up, a hopeful look on his face.

“I think it would be best on you.” Curufin returned the bracelet to him. Celebrimbor nodded and left the room.

It was not that Curufin hated him, or disliked him at all. Sometimes he thought his son was afraid of him, and indeed that might have been true. He did not wish to instill that… When he saw his son he only saw his wife, and her face as he left. Perhaps that is why he wanted his son to work in the forge, so he would be less like her. Then again, perhaps that was profoundly unkind of him.

Curufin never liked it when these thoughts occurred to him, so he left the room as well, intending to work until he forgot.


	6. Ambarussa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Names
> 
> Telufinwë (Telvo) = Amras  
> Pityafinwë (Pityo) = Amrod
> 
> This is from an AU I'm working on where Aredhel visits the twins instead of Celegorm and Caranthir (and ends up avoiding Eöl in the process).

This had gone on for long enough. It had somehow never occurred to Amrod that his brother would one day no longer wish to rule East Beleriand with Amrod alone. Amras had never said anything of the sort, but Amrod could tell he and Aredhel were growing very close.

They would spend days together on grassy hills and hunting in the forest, and Amrod was certain that Aredhel had not originally intended to stay this long. How could he bring it up? Was it even a good idea to bring it up?

He found Amras in their usual spot in the forest, leaning against a tree, his eyes closed. Amrod punched him in the arm. “Telvo!”

“What is it, Pityo?”

“Are you and Aredhel getting married?”

Amrod hoped there wouldn’t be a pause. Yet there it was, and Amras stared at him. “How could you tell?”

“Telvo, you spend all your time with her! I don’t think I’ve gone hunting with only you in a number of months.”

Amras looked almost apologetic, but did not say anything.

“I don’t mind! I think it’s good.” Amrod paused. “Were you going to tell me?”

“Of course I was! Do you think I would be married and not tell you, after we’ve ruled a kingdom for years?” exclaimed Amras. Amrod laughed, realizing the truth of that. “And you’re going to speak at the wedding, so don’t think you aren’t going.” Amras put his arm around Amrod’s shoulder and they walked in the direction of home.


	7. Nerdanel & Fëanor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya Names
> 
> Fëanáro = Fëanor

Nerdanel was not sleeping. She wouldn’t be at this hour anyway, but Fëanáro had promised to meet her, his words cryptic. Surely it would be soon. Fëanáro pretended to be wild and disorderly when he was out from under the control of his father, but even his reveling self would not lose control completely. Outside, Nerdanel heard the gentle strumming of a lute, and then a voice started in, attempting song.

It couldn’t be…Fëanáro did not sing, nor did he play any instrument. Yet…the voice was his. It had to be. She opened her curtains enough to peek through, seeing someone she vaguely knew strumming a lute, and beside him, sure enough, was Fëanáro. His song—undoubtedly improvised—asked her to come outside, or invite him inside. In any case she would have to come downstairs and open the door. Unless…

He stopped singing, gazing intently at the side of the house. As Nerdanel opened the curtains, and then her window, Fëanáro managed to climb up to meet her. The lute player stopped in astonishment. Fëanáro gripped her windowsill, pulling his legs up. Nerdanel took his arms and pulled him into the room. He nearly fell, but caught himself on her shoulders and kissed her with intensity she was surprised he could muster this late, after as many drinks as he’d probably had.

“You could have fallen,” she murmured against his mouth.

“I could fall every day of my life,” he said in response.

She pulled her window closed, and closed the curtains after. She pulled him onto her bed, kissing once more, her hands noticing how far his hair had moved from the braids it had been organized into at the beginning of the night. They paused to undo them completely, Fëanáro kissing down her neck.

Nerdanel spoke the first thought that came into her mind, disorganized as it was: “How much do you want, Fëanáro?”

“How…much…?” Then he seemed to understand, and his eyebrows quirked upward. “We could miss our wedding.”

Nerdanel rolled her eyes. “Yes, son of Finwë, I want you.”

“Mmmm.” Fëanáro leaned forward, attempting to kiss her again.

“But I know you, and you’re going to regret that in five hours, when your father is disappointed.”

Now it was Fëanáro’s turn to roll his eyes, but he could not deny the truth of that. “We could make sure the gods know that this, here, is not our wedding. We could tell them to wait.”

Nerdanel laughed, playing with the laces of her nightgown. “Manwë! This isn’t it!” she joked, looking at the ceiling.

“You heard her,” Fëanáro agreed, letting himself be guided toward her.

“You’re absolutely certain,” she whispered in his ear.

“Of course I am,” he responded with the determination she had come to know from him, yet there was a twinkle in his eyes. They kissed once more.


End file.
